


Bad Guys Don't Try To Be Nice, Do They?

by GayChaton



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Post-Canon, Redemption, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 17:01:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13104603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GayChaton/pseuds/GayChaton
Summary: It’s never too late to change. Haven’t we learned that by now?Kids can’t be evil. There’s gotta be a rule against that; nobody under the age of twenty can really be considered evil. After all, when a hundred annoying boys call you bad guys without any soul, it would probably be pretty satisfying to prove them wrong, right?Alternatively titled: The Delanceys Try Really Hard To Not Be Awful: A Delancey Redemption Arc





	1. The Delanceys Help a Child

"We's ain't the bad guys," Morris mumbled one night.   
  
Across the bed, at the foot, Oscar scoffed. "Yeah, sure. The real bad guy's Uncle Weisel."   
  
"Shush, 'r else he might hear," Morris snapped, watching the hall light at the bottom of their small bedroom's door.   
  
"Who cares? Worst he'll do is not feed us."   
  
Morris swallowed.   
  
"Why's you sayin' that? Suspicious we are?"   
  
Morris kicked at Oscar, scoffing. "Keep your nose on that side'a the bed. Just thinkin's all."   
  
"I ain't no good at thinkin'. Spell it out for me."   
  
"Them newsies we beat up, well we's newsies too, ain't we?"   
  
Oscar actually choked out a quiet laugh at that. "Yeah! Damn, Mo, sure we are. If you say so!"   
  
"Shaddup, we is!"   
  
"'Kay, okay, relax. Yeah I guess we is."   
  
"And those weaker kids, the crip and the pip, we don't got'sta pick on them neither."   
  
"Guess we ain't gotta do much'a what we do. What about it?"   
  
"Well that makes us the bad guys."   
  
"No it don't."   
  
"Yeah, it does."   
  
"How ya figure?"   
  
"Cause they ain't done nothin' to us in the first place, but we bust their skulls all the time for nothin'."   
  
"It's our job."   
  
"No it ain't. Our job is countin' papes to hand out and guardin' the yard from regular street loons. Ain't nothin' in our job actually about beatin' on newsies."   
  
"Well…" Oscar trailed off, and pressed his head against the brick wall. "What if Uncle Weisel fires us if we lighten up?"   
  
"I—"   
  
"Nah Mor, answer me. We get kicked out. What happens? Where'd we even go?"   
  
Morris swallowed hard.   
  
"'Xactly. Nothin'. We's dead weight without a job."   
  
"Boxin'."   
  
"What?"   
  
Morris tilted his head back up to stare at the ceiling. "We gots good punchin' fists. We could go inta boxing, make a fist 'a it."   
  
"…Right."   
  
"Or we could be try bein' real newsies. Or harbor work, or sweatshops, or anythin'.   
  
Oscar shifted a bit. "We better steer clear of crooks. I ain't wanna get caught at the wrong time.   
  
With a hum, Morris agreed, though he wasn't quite sure if Oscar meant caught by police or caught in a pickle with bad people. Neither were good options, so he agreed.   
  
"Well… " Oscar trailed off. "Damn, Mor. Ya got me. We can't get any worse off."   
  
"We ain't bad guys."   
  
"Not no more."   


* * *

  
Uncle Weisel was always the worst part of the job. Sleeping in his spare storage room was the best perk, but the worst was living with him in the first place. The man was fat, rude, stuck up, and picky all at once. He wouldn't so much as give them breakfast until they had their suspenders on. "For God's sake, Morris, put on a vest," Weisel groaned when they walked down the stairs.   
  
Morris did a double take. "But Osc—"   
  
"I don't give a damn, you have to stand closer to the entrance, you have to look presentable. I got you hired to be more professional than the newsies, so you might as well look like it."   
  
Morris glanced at Oscar and himself, wearing the same outfit of a button-up with suspenders holding their trousers. Not to mention that Morris was the one to stand above the crowd of newsies, not with them. Oscar stared at him too, blankly unblinking but just as annoyed. He took a breath and hurried back up the stairs to throw on one of his three vests. He buttoned it up quickly, leaving the bottom undone. It was supposed to get hot, and he'd have to keep cool somehow. As he was walking down the stairs, he heard a loud noise and a grunt, and he hurried down faster.   
  
When he turned the corner, he saw Weisel turned doing something on the counter while Oscar held the side of his face.   
  
Morris stared at his brother, frozen in place. "What…"   
  
"Don't you two mess with the glasses," Weisel said, lifting a crystal glass of milk to his lips so he could take a drink. "They're worth more than you have the money to spare. Don't think I wouldn't need you to pay it back too, so just don't touch it."   
  
Morris blinked. "Sure thing, Uncle Weisel." He moved to stand beside Oscar to poke him in the back.   
  
"Yeah, my bad Uncle Weisel," Oscar added.   
  
"Just eat your sandwiches so we can be on time."   
  
Oscar and Morris both reached for their peanut-butter-and-no-jelly sandwiches and ate them quickly in the hall while Mr. Weisel ate in the kitchen. As they leaned against the bland walls, Oscar rubbed at his face. "Did he slap you?" Morris asked under his breath.   
  
Oscar shrugged with a nod. "Nothin' I can't handle."   
  
"Smarts though?"   
  
"Yeah."   
  
"Youse remember what we's said last night right? Bout work?"   
  
"Mhm," Oscar nodded. "We'll try."   
  
Down the hall, a plate clattered sharply against the sink, and both boys scrambled to their feet before Weisel appeared in the doorway. "Are you quite ready?" Weisel asked.   
  
Morris nodded silently.   
  
"Get a move on, then," he said.   
  
The brothers stepped out of the small home and onto the street, straightening their clothes and hats to fill time while Weisel locked the front door. Once the keys jangled loose, Oscar raised his left hand and caught the ring of keys that were tossed in his direction. The Delanceys walked a few feet in front of Weisel down the streets to Newsie Square.   
  
Sure enough, the newsie boys were lined up in a mob in front of the gates, smushing their faces against the gate rail to see the new headline. Morris felt the urge to shove them out of the way before he looked over the faces of them, each worried and contemplative. He swallowed uncomfortably with the reminder that they were fundamentally the same with only a few job perks of a difference.   
  
Oscar lead the way around to a service door, fiddling with the keys to let them in. Morris held the door open a few extra seconds just to let Mr. Weisel in before trotting to catch up to his brother. They shared a glance as they walked out, ignoring Weisel moving to the distribution window.   
  
"We really doin' this?" Oscar mumbled, glancing at the gate separating them from the newsies.   
  
"Up to you. I don't have’ta give 'em papes," Morris shrugged nervously.   
  
Oscar looked around and kept walking. Morris followed.   
  
"Hey hey, everyone I got a real comedy piece for yas," one of the newsies said. Race, Morris remembered after a second.   
  
"Yeah, lay it on me then," said the one with his hat backwards all the time. Morris couldn't place a name.   
  
"Why'd Oscar and Morris get kicked outta the football team?"   
  
A mumble arose around the crowd as Oscar kept his head down and reached the chains.   
  
Racetrack grinned. "They's pretty good at it, but they don't got any good Defensy-s."   
  
Some newsie hit the kid on the shoulder lightly. "That ain't even that clever, ya just mashed together 'defense' and 'Delancey'."   
  
"Wells at least I got the guts to try stand up comedy," Race scowled. "If I had the add-vertisments, I would end up on the stage.”   
  
"An' if we had the money to buy tomatoes, they'd end up in your face," another newsie said.   
  
Oscar unwrapped the chain from the gate and pulled the left side open.   
  
"Say Oscar, ain'tcha gonna say somethin' bout my comedy routine?" Race asked, pushing through the crowd to saunter in first.   
  
After a second of recollecting the keys into his pocket, Oscar looked up. "Nope."   
  
"Hey, that ain't very nice," Race scowled.   
  
"Get to work," Morris cut in before they could aggravate Oscar further. He turned and started walking, and sent a sharp look back at Oscar. Oscar followed obediently and caught up, ignoring the chatter amongst the newsies.   
  
"They sure are annoyin' enough for me to wanna bash their teeth in," Oscar growled.   
  
"They's just fishin' for you to do somethin' about it."   
  
"Survival o' the fittest is what we always said," Oscar said, pouting.   
  
"Wells they survived us this long."   
  
Oscar made a grunt and stepped into the distribution office. Morris followed and split off to head to the balcony over the area.   
  
Newsies threw banter as usual, and as usual, Oscar stayed quiet while their uncle did the talking. However, from what Morris could tell, none of the newsies got their papes shoved into their hands in mild aggression. They just collected their papers without event.   
  
What shocked him the most was nobody noticed.   
  
They were grumbling about the lackluster headline, sneering at each other for some reason or another, and completely ignoring Oscar. They ignored Morris most of the time anyway, so that wasn't a surprise, but nobody looked twice at either of them.   
  
Finally, when they'd all collected their papes, they scattered to the streets, already hawking, lying, and heading off to their sectors of Manhattan.   
  
Morris shuffled down the stairs somewhat numb.   
  
"Boys," Weisel said. "Take these extra papes to the wagon and walk it down to the boys in the west side."   
  
"What happened to the guys?" Oscar mumbled.   
  
"They're out sick, now get a move on. You're getting paid for it anyway. Just be back before the afternoon rush."   
  
Morris stepped forward and picked up a tall stack of papes and started walking them out. After a few trips, they'd gotten the unsold stacks into the wagon, and Weisel had disappeared. Morris blinked at the full wagon and turned to Oscar. "Pull it together or take turns?"   
  
"Uhh…" Oscar looked at the load. "Together."   
  
Morris nodded and picked up one side of the tongue while Oscar took the other, and they started dragging the wagon out to and down the street. The walk was not fun in the growing heat of late summer, but they were getting paid. During the walk, his hands started to burn, but he didn't say a word.   
  
"Hey! It's the Delanceys!"   
  
Morris turned his head and saw that little kid newsie pointing at them from a street corner.   
  
"Aw hell," Oscar groaned beside him.   
  
With nothing better to do, Morris turned his head forward and kept walking.   
  
"Hey! Hey stop!" The kid had run across the street and walked alongside Oscar. "What are you doing?"   
  
Morris shot a glance at Oscar. They made eye contact and decisively ignored the child.   
  
"Hey, I asked you a question! Aren't ya' gonna answer?"   
  
"Where's your brother? One that's smart as a steel trap?" Oscar grunted finally.   
  
"I asked first."   
  
Oscar turned to roll his eyes to Morris. "Carryin' the papes down to the other newsies."   
  
"Dave's selling with Kid Blink and Mush today cause Blink wanted to learn stuff about school."   
  
Oscar said nothing back.   
  
“Do you know school stuff?”   
  
“Mo knows school stuff.”   
  
The child blinked and stared wide eyed at Morris, who groaned. “What grade did you get to? Shouldn’t you still be in school?”   
  
“I got ta… fifth— hey leave us alone,” Morris retorted, shaking his head at himself for playing in with the kid’s stupid question games.

“So your job today is to move this cart across the city?”

“Yeah?”

"Hey, what would ya' do if someone stole your papes?"   
  
"We'd soak 'em, that's what," Morris said.   
  
"That's no way to move a cart."   
  
"Scram kid," Oscar growled. "Get back to work."   
  
The kid frowned, walking alongside them. There was maybe twenty seconds of silence in the walk before he broke it again. "Well which place are you goin’ to that hasn't already opened?"   
  
"Didn't we tell you to scram?" Oscar asked. When the child just crossed his arms, Oscar sighed. "Places runnin' out of our papes need more, so we restock."   
  
"That sou—"   
  
The kid was clipped off when he was bumped into by an adult man. He landed on his rear on the curb, stack of papes dropping into the gutter as the adult grunted in discomfort.   
  
As the newsie scrambled to catch his wind, the tall man stepped towards him. "Ya guttersnipe, you wanna  _ pay _ for this coffee—?"   
  
"Hey," Morris barked, dropping the cart and hurrying over. "Watch it, gone coon!"   
  
"Yeah, what, you get your kicks hittin' kids?" Oscar added, landing at Morris' side easily. He tossed one fist into his other hand. "Wells I thinks we's two kids that could get a kick outta hittin' you if ya don't get out of here!"   
  
For a moment, the man looked over the brothers as if sizing them up. Morris twisted his head to the side, letting his neck make an audible crack as he balled his hands into fists.   
  
A second later, the man merged back into the street traffic.   
  
Morris turned and swooped down, picking up the kid's papes.   
  
" _ Hey— _ " the kid exclaimed, stumbling to a stand to reach for them.   
  
Instead, Morris ignored him and turned to Oscar. "We have any stacks of fifty in the back corner?"   
  
"Yeah," Oscar said. He peered into the cart. "Lucky they packed the front'a it first."   
  
Morris handed the half-soggy stack of papes to Oscar, and took the clean stack instead. He held it out to the kid, and dropped it in his arms. "Now would ya get out of here, cracker? Wasted enough of our time as is."   
  
The child looked dumbfounded. "I already sold some papes," he said, gobsmacked.   
  
"Well you get out of here too before we learn to count better," Oscar said, moving back to the cart's tongue. "Mo, help me lift."   
  
"Yeah yeah," Morris grumbled, following suit and walking on. Luckily, the kid got the hint and walked away.   
  
"… you think that's gonna come back to bite us?" Oscar asked.   
  
"Ain't that how it always goes?" Morris responded.   



	2. The Delanceys Fight a Richmond Kid

What gets scary is the lack of reaction.  
  
Oscar and Morris kept at it, only spewing their annoyances at the newsies in private exchanges. It killed to not get a reaction though. It felt like something was about to break, about to crash down all at once and change everything.   
  
Everyday, Oscar unlocked the gates and they let the newsies get their papes without comment. Every day, Morris stood back and stayed silent at the taunts and banter.   
  
Morris would stand at his perch up on the rail and watch them, trying to put names to faces that he hadn’t known in years. Jack Kelly was easy enough, the kid grew up a newsie with them. Specs too. The loudmouth, Racetrack. Kid Blink’s eyepatch was a good enough hint. Crutchie was a given too. But then there was Romeo, and Mush, and Finch, and Elmer, Albert, Tommy-boy, Ittey, Boots, Smoke, Snipeshooter, Jo Jo, Buttons, Snitch, Skittery, Henry, Snoddy, Swifty, Jake, Pie Eater, Bumlets—   
  
Okay so Morris didn’t beat himself up too bad for not recognizing _all_ of them at first glance. But he was getting better. He would guess a name as they lined up for papes, and listen as they stood around reading to see if he was right.   
  
On the next Thursday, six weeks after their decision, something happened.   
  
The line for papes was slowly disappearing as they all got their papers and flipped through, getting the information. But someone new, an unrecognizable face of a newsie walked in and everyone tensed. The boy moved towards the line and stood, arms crossed and glaring down the local newsies.   
  
"Hey, who's exactly do you think you are?" Jack said, stepping forward.   
  
Morris climbed down the stairs from his perch and stepped to his brother's side to observe.

The local newsies were all watching the exchange sharply, as if there was going to be a knife fight about to go down.

"I'm here for papes. Ain't it a free country?"  
  
"Little to old to be a newsie, doncha think?" Racetrack said, hovering behind Jack.   
  
"Sorry, thought it was a free country."   
  
Jack peered at the kid. "Oh, I know you. You's the kid from Richmond, ain’cha?"   
  
The newcomer stared Jack down.   
  
"They really think they'll intimidate us by crossing the _two_ bridges, selling in our spots and sending… you?"   
  
Morris and Oscar didn’t know much about modern newsie politics outside the obvious. Spot Conlon is king of Brooklyn, Brooklyn’s the biggest force, Manhattan newsies aren’t always respected, and _newsies certainly aren’t supposed to cross the city to sell on other newsies’ territory._   
  
The newsie puffed his chest out and stepped forward.   
  
A few newsies hurried to side behind Jack, but he calmed them with hand motions. "No need boys, stand down, we ain't gotta fight. He's just gotta know R—"   
  
Jack was cut off as the boy threw an uppercut against his jaw.   
  
"Morris!" Oscar barked, and both of them dashed out the door towards the fight. Luckily, all but a few newsies had stepped back to clear the space. Only the new kid, Racetrack, Jack, and Albert were tousling.   
  
Morris dashed in and shoved the New kid back, planting himself between the newcomer and Albert.   
  
Behind him, he glanced and saw Oscar reaching one arm around Albert's chest to keep him from chasing after the attacker, and the other hand reached out to pull Jack to his feet.   
  
Morris turned back to the newcomer, snarling and rubbing his face. He raced towards Morris, who stood his ground. He landed a sucker punch onto Morris's stomach, but Morris got in a backhand before he was socked in the cheek and shoved back. But as the kid rushed forward, Morris slid to the side and punched him hard in the temple. The kid collapsed to the ground. "Uncle Weisel! What do you want me to do with him?"   
  
Weisel stuck his head out the door. "Throw all three of them out! We have papers to sell and fast!"   
  
_Three_ ?   
  
Morris turned, he'd thought there were four in the fight, but Race had been pulled and hidden inside a crowd of newsies shielding him from sight.   
  
_Oh well._   
  
Morris glanced at Oscar. "What do we do?"   
  
"Drag that bum out and leave him on the square," Oscar said. "I'll handle it."   
  
For a moment, Morris was utterly confused, but nodded. He grabbed the groaning pile of Richmond newsie by the leg and dragged him out. The kid had rolled onto his back, so at least it wasn't as bad as it could have been for him. Morris stopped when they reached the gates, and switched to lifting him up under the arms. He put the guy on a bench in the park across the street.   
  
Even so, he hesitated a moment before walking off. He was supposed to start being a good guy, right? Time to start trying to act like one.   
  
Morris patted the guy on the cheek sharply and whistled. "Hey, numbskull. You awake?"   
  
The guy blinked his eyes open.   
  
"Follow the finger, dummy," Morris hissed, dragging his finger back and forth in front of his head.   
  
His eyes tracked it well enough. No scrambled head.   
  
"Walk yourself back hum before you embarrass yourself all over Manhattan," Morris said before turning back.   
  
Oscar was huddled against the wall with the two local boys. "I'm tryna problem solve—" Oscar said.   
  
"Wells we ain't trustin you," Jack interrupted. "All you wants is more cash in yer pocket."   
  
"Hey," Morris mumbled, staring at Oscar for an explanation.   
  
"Albert didn't get papes before the fight," Oscar said. "So I says plank me his money, and I'll hand it to a newsie and they buy it for him. But nobody trusts me with the cash."   
  
Morris hummed. He rubbed his cheek, hoping it wouldn't bruise too bad. "Well I can't think of any better way to get papes without waiting for the evening edition."   
  
The two newsies huddled together, and as they did, Oscar pointed at Morris' vest. "He got your stomach, was it bad or nah?"   
  
"Not even close," Morris shrugged off.   
  
"Hey," Jack said, holding up a fist with a coin in it. "If I don't get this or papes back, I'll be real mad."   
  
Morris reached forward and snagged it from the air. "Step down the block before Weisel sees you. Oscar, go back in."   
  
Oscar nodded and stepped in, and Morris worked up a disgruntled face before following a few seconds later.   
  
He found Racetrack quickly; the kid was staring at Morris and the gate with an angry face. Morris made sure his posture was aggressive as he blocked Racetrack from Weisel's sight. "Race," Morris whispered.   
  
Racetrack frowned deeply, sizing him up. The other newsies inched closer too, ready to start another fight to defend their own.   
  
"Don't want trouble, Al needs papes. This is Jack's money, just buy some for him when you get yours," Morris said, showing the coin close to his chest. "Got it?"   
  
Racetrack's brows furrowed tight. "… Yeah, got it."   
  
Morris pushed the hand with the coin against Race's shoulder as if he were shoving him. "And don't you forget it," he growled louder, and turned back to the selling office. As he passed Weisel to head up to his balcony, he nodded. "He won't make trouble any time soon, Uncle Weisel."   
  
"Good job," Weisel grunted, and then slammed on the counter. "Next! Come on, get your papers and get out!"   


* * *

  
They started staring after that.   
  
The immediate change was shocking. They'd knocked the newsies into a cocked hat, but it wasn't satisfying. The day before, they'd been jeering taunts through the gate as Oscar unlocked, but then.   
  
Each and every newsie fell dead quiet when the brothers walked up.   
  
Morris looked across them, most were watching him or Oscar. Oscar, who had frozen.   
  
"Oscar, gate time," Morris mumbled.   
  
Luckily, it didn't take more than that. Oscar rolled his shoulders and unlocked the gate. As they started walking away, the newsies started talking again, but Morris focused very hard on not hearing what they were talking about.   
  
The boys got their papes, staring at the brothers out of the corners of their eyes.   
  
Morris and Oscar waited until the evening edition to head out, as usual. First, they grabbed some chow from the bakery down the street, and then they got back on track. They hit the theatre.   
  
Miss Medda didn't often talk directly to them, but they talked with the stage managers and offered their help in exchange for a few bits off record. Not like the theatre could afford to hire them, but they had to make money somehow.   
  
Today, the manager had them shuffling around boxes of props from the storage rooms to the backstage of the next upcoming play.   
  
Morris hefted up the full box, and Oscar grabbed a bag and wordlessly offered to hold the doors open for Morris. He took his brother's offer, walking through with a nod and letting Oscar rush ahead to hold the doors in exchange for a lighter cargo.   
  
As they headed down one corridor, someone smashed into Morris' side.   
  
"Nitwit," Morris hissed, shuffling his feet to keep the cardboard box from tipping over and scattering the contents. "Watch where you—"   
  
"Morris," Oscar muttered, setting a hand on Morris' shoulder.   
  
Morris looked over and saw Jack Kelly. "Shit."   
  
Jack frowned, his brows knitting together. "What've you two been up to recently?"   
  
After a moment, Morris glanced at Oscar, who also seemed struggling for an answer.   
  
"Well?" Jack demanded.   
  
"Carryin' some props, can't a guy catch a break," Oscar said, and then pushed Morris forward with a hand on his shoulder.   
  
Morris walked, but Jack followed them. "Hey, I'm talkin to youse, it ain't po-lite to walk away," Jack said.   
  
Morris rolled his eyes.   
  
"Do you even work here?"   
  
Morris shot a glare at Jack. "What's your point, soaplock? 'M gettin sour on you, wha'do you want?"   
  
"I wants to know what youse up to, actin' all nice to the boys. Les says youse replaced his papes las' month and then you help Albert get his papes, and now you's helpin' Miss Medda? I wanna know what you thinks you're gettin!"   
  
"Ain't gettin nothin'," Oscar hissed.   
  
Jack waved to the stack of props indignantly. "So this is charity?"   
  
"Gettin paid for _this_ , but not for nothin' else," Morris said.   
  
"Well then why'a ya doin it?" Jack asked. He huffed in frustration, looking around helplessly. "Ya actin' all-overish. I don't— why wouldja?"   
  
"Cause we can," Oscar said.   
  
Morris looked at his brother for a second. He was really proud, actually. His brother had been through a lot of shit for being a dumb kid, and together they'd always learned to do what was best for themselves, not best for everyone. Because they had to. Because mom and dad weren't gonna do it for them. Because they'd have been dead if they hadn't. But now… now they were almost adults, and they could stand their ground, and instead of standing for themselves, Oscar was proving to be just as enthusiastic as Morris in standing for all the newsies.   
  
Jack was standing dumbfounded. "I— but you— we's— you two _always_ —"   
  
"Don't just stand there," Morris chuckled, walking away. "You'll get in the actors' way."   
  
The brothers left Kelly standing there in the backstage hall, chuckling to themselves and feeling unbelievably giddy at how much better it felt to confuse Kelly than it was to chase after him.   
  
They left the props on stage right where they’d been told to, and started unloading them into the areas designated by the writing.   
  
“Uhh, Mo what does this say?”   
  
Morris peered at the writing on the tag that denoted what prop to put on that area. “Canes. Like, these,” Morris said, lifting up one of the canes.   
  
“I know what a cane is,” Oscar snickered. He shoved Morris lightly as he reached for the props. Morris shoved back.   
  
“I hope you boys are working,” a pretty voice called.   
  
Morris turned and offered a small smile. “Yes, Miss Larkin.”   
  
“You pulled these props over all by yourself?” the woman asked, staring aghast at the large pile. “You must be some strong boys.”   
  
“Liftin’ papes every day of the week,” Oscar commented with a smile as he continued setting up the props.   
  
Miss Medda hummed softly. “It seems like anyone who’s worth knowing these days has something to do with the newspaper. Or maybe that’s just the power of advertisement.”   
  
“Yes’m,” Morris nodded. Turned to keep lifting props to the table to be sorted.   
  
There was a short pause, and then Morris was being tapped on the shoulder. “You don’t work here, do you?”   
  
“Nome,” Morris said. “Only when your stage manage needs extra hands.”   
  
She pressed her lips together. “And your names are?”   
  
“The Delancey brothers,” Oscar said.

“Delancey. Now that’s a stage worthy name,” Medda said as she turned and walked away.  
  
The stage manager gave them more money than usual that day.


	3. The Delanceys Stop By The Lodging House

They returned home with some spare change in their pockets and found Weisel in a grouchy mood.  
  
Uncle Weisel was in his living room, reading some kind of book in his favorite leather chair, all alone in the house. His ashtray sat right next to him on the table, filled with an unusually high level of cigar ashes. If that wasn't enough to tip the brothers off, the mess of dishes in the kitchen certainly was.   
  
Morris stared into Oscar's eyes for a second, but found his own confusion mirrored right back at him. He was going to whisper a question to his brother about what to do, but Oscar was already moving.   
  
"What's got you wrathy, Uncle Weisel?" Oscar asked, stepping into the doorframe.   
  
Weisel looked up and glared at Oscar. "Eh. That kid that you threw out needed a buncha paperwork to sort out. I'm thinking you two should get it into their thick skulls that they need to keep their squabbles out of the workyard."   
  
Morris and his brother blinked.   
  
"Well? Do I need to walk you to the lodging house myself?"   
  
"No, Uncle Weisel," Oscar mumbled, looking back at Morris.   
  
"Go off the reel, then. And bring back a card from the lodging house," Weisel growled, pointing an accusing finger at both of them. "Prove to me that you're going where you say you will."   
  
"Sure, Uncle Weisel," Morris said. He patted Oscar's shoulder and turned to the door again. They stepped onto the street and set off towards the lodging house.   
  
On the way, they groaned about not being able to lie about having gone. Oscar briefly suggested running away with the newsies, and Morris cackled for a whole block. When he regained his breath, he reminded a confused Oscar that the newsies basically worked for Weisel anyway. At that, Oscar just pouted and shut up.   
  
They walked to the lodging house.   
  
A brick building snug between others of like build with the only denotation of the correct place being a sign on the second story saying “NEWSBOY LODGING HOUSE”, above a sign that read “UHLIO & CO. CLOTH HOUSE”, but under one that read “BRACE MEMORIAL”. It was no wider or deeper than any other street-side shop or cafe, but it went vertical a few stories. Most of the space seemed to be rented out to a business shop, leaving just a small reception area. Morris opened the door to the door to see an older man staring at them confused at the front desk. "We's here to speak with the boys," Morris said. "Only take two hops, then we'll pull foot before curfew."   
  
The guy seemed okay with it, and they walked up to head to the other floors. In the second floor, there was a big dining room with no newsies in sight, so they kept going. The third held a huge room with benches, as if it was used for an audience to watch a show or listen to someone talk.   
  
In the fourth floor, they finally met a room lined with maybe fifty bunks. Not enough for everyone who was sitting in the room, but they seemed more intent on playing cards and dice than sleeping. Morris wondered if there were more beds somewhere else. When the Delanceys stepped in, commotion died very quickly. A few newsies set into motion, but all stared.   
  
Morris set his jaw and looked over them.   
  
"Well howdy, if it isn't the Delanceys come'ta visit our hum," a voice said. They looked over and saw Jack Kelly shuffling down the stairs with one of the colored boys tailing after him. "And after youse walked out on me when I conversed with you in the first place."   
  
There was a silence, and Morris uncomfortably hooked his thumbs into his belt loops as the newsboys stared at them.   
  
Jack waved his arms slightly. "Well, to what do we owe the pleasure?"   
  
"Got a fix to flint," Oscar said.   
  
The newsies shifted uncomfortably. Jack tapped the newsie following him, and the colored boy shifted off into the crowd of boys.   
  
"It's not our own hook though," Morris added, crossing his arms over his chest.   
  
"Oh yeah? ‘Course," Jack shrugged mockingly. "So you care to tell the classroom who put you up to this."   
  
"Weisel," Morris said.   
  
The room settled into a confused silence. Jack quirked his eyebrows. "Is this some kinda gum we're supposed to fall for? Wiesel? Youse expect us to believe that Wiesel is sendin' his goons—"   
  
"Didn' he do the same durin the strike?" Oscar shrugged.   
  
"What's that s'posed to mean?"   
  
"Oscar, that ain't their funeral, let it go," Morris shrugged. "Weisel was all huffy, says we needs to knock it into your heads that ya can't cause fights at the circulation gates. So we's vamoosed to tell ya that he's a thorn in the side to put up with."   
  
"Well bully for you," Jack shrugged.   
  
"Damnit Kelly, I'm tryin' to give you a caution," Morris growled.   
  
"Mo, cool it," Oscar said, grabbing the back of Morris' vest.   
  
Morris turned and scowled at Oscar, but took a breath and shook his head. For a second, they waited to calm down. It was getting harder and harder to keep his cool around these newsies when they didn't get it that they were trying to help.   
  
"Kelly," Oscar called. "Weisel can order us to kick certain newsies out. Like, blacklistin'. So unless you wanna walk up to midtown every day for papes, ya might wanna start listenin’ to us.”   
  
“Well tell me this, boys,” Jack growled, stepping forward until he was right in front of them. “What does it matter to you?”   
  
“It don’t,” Oscar said defensively. “We’re just here to tell ya the news-“   
  
“No you ain’t,” Jack said.   
  
Morris looked around at the newsies. They’d moved behind Jack like an army ready to face the front lines. A bunch of scared street rats. A gang of brothers. However you spun it, they were jumpy and defensive and ready to fight.   
  
Oscar seemed to have noticed as well and was taking a step back.   
  
“Fine, Oscar, let’s get outta here,” Morris mumbled, tapping Oscar’s arm.   
  
For a second, Oscar looked between the newsies and the stairs, but that moment was all it took for Jack Kelly to step up to them. “Look,” Kelly said, “I want to know here and now what youse try’na do with yer charity acts. Speak now or forever hold your tongue.”   
  
“We ain’t try’na do anything to youse,” Morris growled.   
  
Oscar nodded, “Is it so hard to think that maybe we’s ain’t the bad guys of your story?”   
  
“That we’s ain’t actually evil? That we’s people too?” Morris said.   
  
Jack Kelly stared at them suspiciously.   
  
“How many newsies here did Oscar teach how to hawk papes?” Morris asked. The room fell quiet as the older newsies averted their stares and younger newsies gazed in shock.   
  
“How many of youse have we fought off harassers for?” Oscar said.   
  
Morris nodded. “How many papes traded?   
  
Oscar set his jaw. “How many fights for you?”   
  
“How many fights _from_ you?” Jack interrupted. “Hey— How many insults and offenses from you two? How many times have you harassed Les or Crutchie? And after all that, how many times have you apologized?”   
  
A silence fell over the room, and Morris expected a retaliation from Oscar, but it never came. Instead, Morris took a breath. “It’s not gonna happen again.”   
  
“ _That’s_ not an apology,” Jack said.   
  
“Well would you even let us see him to tell him ourselves?”   
  
“Why couldn’t you just tell him at the circulation gates?”   
  
“We’re on thin ice,” Morris hissed. “We get told to keep youse in line. We get a roof and food and a few dollars for listening to Uncle Weisel when he tells us to scare youse.”   
  
“What’d you think happens if we flip to bein’ chummy?” Oscar added.   
  
“Boo hoo,” Jack growled. “Whatever you tell yourselves so you c’n sleep.”   
  
“Well then no apologies to issue here,” Oscar said. He glared around at the newsies in the room. “You’ve been warned in proper.”   
  
“Get out,” Jack said, low and quiet.   
  
Morris wanted very badly to march up and sock him in the face, but Oscar tapped his forearm across Morris’ chest and he thought better of it.   
  
They turned and left, grabbing a business card and moving down the streets.   


* * *

  
Mornings and afternoons of handing out new editions of papes, carrying theatre equipment, and counting the papes that _The World_ had to buy back. Even with that, their savings was meager on the best days and nonexistent on the worse ones. Sometimes they had to spend their own money on clothes, or bandages, or medicine on top of their meals, and it was getting hard to pool enough funds to assure themselves that they could make it on their own. Some days, Miss Larkins didn’t have enough to pay the part time workers at all.   
  
”You know any abandoned buildings we could use?” Morris asked one evening, staring at the skyline of the slowly setting sunset.   
  
“Do you see me pokin’ my head in a lot of buildings?”   
  
Morris chewed on his cheek. He could wait in silence.   
  
“Eh,” Oscar grunted. “There’s the one I can think of, if there’s any rooms there that haven’t rotted away yet. You’ve seen the looks Uncle’s givin’ us too then?”   
  
“The ones yellin’ that he’s gonna fire us if we don’t get back to smashin’ skulls?”

His lips pulled into a one-sided smirk; Oscar let out a chortle. “Uh, yeah. Those ones. Do you think he’ll say something soon?”   
  
Morris looked down. “Yeah.”

"Is this worth it?"

Morris looked back up fast enough to make his hair bounce. Oscar didn't look like he expected; with those words, Morris expected a face tired and somewhat lazy and ready to give up. Instead, Oscar was completely still, gazing off into space. He looked small in that moment. Morris fought the urge (and failed) to look over his shoulder to make sure they were truly alone for this serious of a talk.

Oscar seemed to take his silence as confusion. "I mean, not like that. I know, it's worth it to not beat up on lil' kids. But is it worth stickin' around for these kids? I j'st wonder if it would be better for those punks if we quit 'n left instead of messin' everything up for the rest of us."

After a few seconds of consideration and listening to the wind, Morris cleared his throat. "D'you remember the gate guards before us? Back when we were younger?"

"The ones who dragged newsies across the bricks if they so much 's talked above a whisper?" Oscar asked. He laughed a bit. "Didn't stop Jack none, though. Yeah, I remember them."

"If they're just gonna replace us with fellas like that, then yeah, it's worth it t' me," Morris said.

They lapsed into silence again. "The building I'm talkin' bout, I'll point it out on the walk to the gates tomorrow. Just in case Weisel does somethin'. We’ll know where to go when he does.”   
  
Morris swallowed and prayed that they’d changed enough so karma wouldn’t ruin their lives when things went down.   
  
The next day, he gathered up all of their money, their brass knuckles, and the majority of their smaller possessions, put them in a sack, and hid it under the stairs of Weisel’s house. 


	4. The Delanceys Join a Fistfight

Another two weeks later, some hissy fit starts being thrown. Something happened with the transportation business or something, because the headline that Morris had to put up was “MANHATTAN AND BROOKLYN SET TO FUSE”.   
  
The papes had been handed to all of the Manhattan newsies, and the majority of them were leaning against walls, reading (or pairing up to be read to by literate ones) their newly bought papers. Most seemed excited, and Morris had watched more than a few buy more papers than they regularly would. Jack seemed to be talking animatedly to Race and Mush about the politics of it all, but the gibberish melted in with the other chatter, so at least it was bearable.   
  
But as Morris was preparing to step down from his perch, a group of kids marched in. Morris eyed them cautiously. There were maybe ten or eleven of them, and all of them looked angry.   
  
Morris hurried down the stairs.   
  
By the time he reached the bottom, the first of the boys was slamming his paper down on the counter. He glared up at Weisel. “This ain’t the same story as youse got.”   
  
Weisel squared his jaw. “If you don’t buy from  _ The World _ , you risk getting the news at a less profound level.”   
  
“See here’s the thing. We all work for  _ The World _ ,” the newsie said.   
  
Morris peered around Weisel’s shoulder. The paper did indeed have  _ The World _ ’s logo on it, but the headline said “ **LAST PIGEON OF ITS TIME DEAD** ”. Maybe a mistake in the printing process, where the headline got changed and nobody notified one location to print the new story instead of the old one.   
  
“And we were hoping youse could rectify the company’s mistake by tradin’ these papes for the real story we deserve,” the leader said, crossing his arms.   
  
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. No refunds until the end of the day, end of story,” Weisel said. “But if you’d like to purchase a new set of papes, we can certainly come to an agreement.”   
  
The newsies tensed up. “I ain’t payin’ for my papes twice.”   
  
“Then sell the ones you got,” Weisel said, turning from the window. “Boys. Pack up.”   
  
Morris hurried out the door to stand by Oscar at the pape wagon. They squared their shoulders and tried their best to look intimidating against the group of newsies. Nobody was going to steal from their wagon and get away without a fight.   
  
For a moment, there was a terse silence.   
  
The leader held his hand up in a “wait” motion, then pointed at the local newsies. “We’re trading for a better headline, one way or another.”   
  
They strode forward, but the local newsies converged too. Unfortunately for the local newsies, a number of them had already set out to sell papes for the day, so the numbers looked evenly matched. Morris scanned the crowd to size up their chances. Some pretty sturdy opponents versus Specs, Les, Davey, Tommy-boy, Elmer, Crutchie, and Jack.   
  
Jack Kelly emerged in front. “Now, you boys are Tribeca, right? How would Ginger feel about you starting trouble with Lower East Side?”   
  
“Ginger says get your papes, so we’s here gettin our papes,” the leader of the newcomers said, glaring him down. “So do we have to take them?”   
  
“Look,” Jack said, raising his hands as if to calm them down. “… Now it stinks that you got a bad headline but it doesn’t means youse can’t—“   
  
The leader newsie shoved Jack backwards, cutting him off. “We’re gettin’. Our. Papes.”   
  
“Morris let’s go,” Oscar said, tapping Morris’s arm before breaking out into a sprint.   
  
By the time the Delancey brothers got over to them, the fight had already started, and Lower Manhattan newsies and the Tribeca newsies were already tangled up. Morris grabbed a stranger newsie by the waist and hurled him off to the side, where he hit the ground with a cough.   
  
He felt a sharp heel kick at his side, and he huffed for a split second, but reeled his arm in to bash sharply across his opponent’s cheek. The guy didn’t go down right away, so Morris grabbed his head to hold him still and jabbed his knee into the boy’s stomach a few times until he crumpled to the floor.   
  
A body flailed and collided with his back haphazardly, and Morris was ready to soak them before he turned and caught sight of the kid. That  _ kid _ -uh- he couldn’t remember the name and he didn’t have the time to think it out, but he did remember it was  _ that guy’s _ little brother, so he decided to take action. He grabbed the kid around the waist and hauled him out of the fray, squirming the entire time.   
  
When he set the kid down, he grabbed his tiny jaw and watched as the kid recognized him. “You. Go under that wagon and  _ stay _ there until your brother comes to get you, ‘kay?”   
  
He let go of the kid and stood up. He only waited to see the kid run off towards the wagon before throwing himself into the fight.   
  
Morris pulled a stranger newsie from Specs, who was on the ground. He got the guy in a headlock and kept the guy’s hands trapped between his arms. For a second, he just stood there, unsure of what to do without his brother there ready to soak the guy in the stomach. But then Specs stood up and kicked the guy in the guts, causing his weight to drop. Morris let him hit the ground, and nodded at Specs.   
  
He whirled around and caught sight of some punk trying to suffocate Oscar. The newsie’s dirty hands clawed in hard at Oscar’s throat, and though Oscar had a hold of the kid”s hair and was kicking at his body, the newsie wasn’t stopping.   
  
Morris threw himself at the kid, connecting his fist hard to the newsie’s ear. When he still didn’t let go, Morris grabbed around the kid’s elbows and yanked his arms away, then shoved him to the ground and started punching his face. As the kid let out a yelp and started to hide his face, Morris pulled himself up and turned to Oscar. Oscar had taken a knee, and was trying to get his breathing under control.   
  
“Oscar,” Morris called sharply over the noise of the fight.   
  
Oscar glanced up, and gave a thumbs-up before standing up and standing beside Morris to continue the fight.   
  
“Stop!”   
  
“Stop, everyone!” Jack’s voice rang out too.   
  
Everyone’s gaze jerked over to the source, where the leader and one of the other strangers were holding knives in their hands, back to back. Morris and Oscar were standing on the other side of the fight, but they could see the scene clearly enough. The leader had a knife pointed at Jack’s chest, and the other had Dave pressed against the wall with a knife to his jaw.   
  
Morris jolted when Oscar’s hand grabbed his shoulder. He looked over, and Oscar made a hand motion of his fingers tracing a heart-like shape until both of his fingers converged at the top of the heart. Or, circle, whatever. Morris figured Oscar wanted to split up and attack them from both sides.   
  
He looked around, taking a survey of all of the newsies. Half the Tribeca newsies were on the ground, the other half panting and not too well off. Specs was leaning heavily on Romeo, but they were standing. Crutchie was helping Tommy-boy stagger to his feet. Elmer was on the ground and he looked dazed, but he didn’t look particularly badly hurt. Les was— well probably still under the wagon. And Jack and Davey were at knife point.   
  
Morris nodded to Oscar, and started creeping around the right side. He passed the direction that Jack was, but the leader newsie didn’t seem to notice Morris’s movement in the background. He hid for a moment behind Specs, the only newsie tall enough to take cover behind, and then moved forward slowly to creep up behind Crutchie and Tommy-boy. He fell still, waiting for Oscar to sweep around.   
  
The boys were all breathing heavy, catching their breaths and watching with suspense. Dave was shaking, and Jack was staring at Davey sharply. The leader newsie took a few deep breaths and nodded. “Okay.  _ Okay _ .”   
  
Morris watched Oscar take shelter behind an unsuspecting Tribeca newsie.   
  
“We’re going to take these papes with a good headline, or this right here will be the next headline. You understand?”   
  
There was a silence with no reaction.   
  
Apparently, this flared his anger, because he stepped closer to Jack and adjusted his grip on the knife. “You understand?!”   
  
Oscar pointed a finger into the sky, and Morris ran forward the same time as Oscar did. Morris grabbed the hand of the other newsie, the one who had Davey. He held the wrist securely so it couldn’t jerk forward and hurt the East Side newsie. Then, he clocked the offender upside the head, held the arm to make sure he couldn’t retreat, and punched his head twice more before finally letting the guy slump to the ground. Before anything, he grabbed the weapon from the limp boy’s hand and pocketed it.   
  
He turned and saw Oscar holding the leader newsie’s wrist, the other knife in Oscar’s hand. His brother lifted a leg and kicked hard at the newsie’s stomach, and let it smash him into the brick floor.   
  
Morris was about to grin when he saw the blood at Oscar’s side. He felt frozen in place.   
  
“All of you, get out! Be lucky we’re not soakin’ each one of you,” Jack yelled.   
  
Like magic, all of the strangers grew some sense and pulled up their fallen brothers to cheese it. The Lower Manhattan newsies started cheering, and grouped up to the side. When the rest were finally limping out, Morris finally stepped forward to his brother. “ _ Oscar _ ?” Morris asked, trying to be quiet.   
  
“Yeah, I knows,” Oscar winced. He glanced over at the leaving newsies and seemingly deemed them far enough away to raise a hand to his wound. It came back bloody. “Shit.”   
  
“How bad?” Morris asked, already taking off his vest and pressing it against his side.   
  
“Can’t tell,” Oscar said.   
  
“Boys!”   
  
Morris startled and stepped in front of Oscar quickly to hide his wound. Weisel stepped out of the building.   
  
“I told you to pack up,” their uncle yelled.   
  
“Uncle Wei—“ Morris started.   
  
“I don’t want to hear it,” he said.   
  
“But—“   
  
“How many  _ times _ do I have to put up with this before I fire you? You knew the situation, and you knew that it’s none of our business what fights the newsies get into. You shouldn’t have done anything.”   
  
“Uncle,” Morris pleaded, glancing back at Oscar.  _ Not now. _ They needed to be able to go home and patch Oscar up. They couldn’t get fired and kicked out now.   
  
“I’ve had it. You two are old enough to learn the consequences of what happens when you don’t do your job.”   
  
Morris took off his hat and pressed it against his chest. “Sir if we could just—“   
  
A smack landed across his face, and shortly after, he was kicked in the stomach. He fell down to one knee like he’d always been told to do as he was being scolded. “Find some other space to occupy. Your parents had the right idea.”   
  
Morris glanced up from the ground as Weisel walked back to  _ The World _ , and then he stood up. “Oscar, how far can you walk?”   
  
“However far we need,” Oscar said.   
  
Morris wanted to scream bullshit, that they would have to stop at some point if Oscar was gonna bleed out along the way, but he pinched his nose and suddenly had to stop the urge to do something too deeply emotional.   
  
“Hey—“   
  
Morris startled, spinning around to look at Jack Kelly. He’d forgotten that they weren’t alone.   
  
“Woah there,” Jack said, raising his hands in surrender. “It’s alright, there’s no rush here.”   
  
For a moment, Morris was stunned until he realized that nobody but him had probably paid attention after the fight to see that Oscar was stabbed. “Yea there is. The jackass dirked Oscar.”   
  
“He  _ what _ ?” Jack yelped, looking sharply at Oscar.   
  
Oscar peeled Morris’ vest from his side and flinched, but it showed that the fabric was soaking up dark blood.   
  
“Shit,” Morris frowned. “That’s bleeding bad. We need— damn. The harbor, you get some salt water on that, and I can steal some—“   
  
“No!” a high pitched voice called.   
  
Morris turned, watching the kid move forward, his brother stumbling to follow.   
  
“We can take him to our house!”   
  
Morris swallowed nervously, glancing at Oscar.   
  
“Les,” the kid’s brother -Dave, maybe- mumbled. “They’re…”   
  
“They’re not newsies, is what Davey’s trying to say,” Crutchie said, shrugging.   
  
“But he’s bleeding! And Morris shoved me under the wagon!” Les said. Which… honestly the kid probably  _ meant _ it to sound like a good thing.   
  
“Excuse me, he what?” Davey asked, eyes shooting up.   
  
“Hey,” Jack interrupted. “Now’s… not the time. Davey your call. Your place or lodging house?”   
  
Davey paled. “I think Sarah would pass out before she could help.”   
  
Jack shrugged. “So be it then. Someone, make sure Elmer has a selling partner today so’s he can be safe. Romeo, I need you to run like hell to Tribeca and tell Ginger what happened before that nutjob tells it wrong and starts a war. Specs, you’re comin’ home with me, alright? Rest of you, get out of here and get to work. Everyone sell on the way back, we’ll have a full conversation tonight.”   
  
Morris blinked as the newsies nodded and scampered off.   
  
Jack turned to them, Specs at his side. He sighed. “C’mon fellas, let’s get you to the lodging house.”   
  


* * *

  
After a long walk with a full debate over if Jack should help carry Oscar, Morris pulled his brother down the sidewalk to the lodging house. Morris glanced at the windows, where none of the lights were turned on in the lobby, or whatever you would call it. The shops around the bottom floor were open, but there was nobody at the newsie reception desk.   
  
“Is anyone there?”   
  
“No,” Jack said, turning and striding down the street. “I’ll go down the alley to the fire escape, open it from the inside; Specs do you want to check how bad it is?”   
  
“I really  _ shouldn’t _ —! And he’s gone. Alright, cool,” Specs sighed, rubbing his face. Then, he kneeled down in front of Oscar and put on a smile. “Okay, take the vest away for a minute.”   
  
Oscar’s hand shakily peeled away Morris’s ruined vest, and underneath, his white shirt had been stained with dark blood. The wound had stopped bleeding for the most part, but there was still some pouring out at the motion.   
  
“Okay, okay not that bad,” Specs nodded, and Morris couldn’t decide if that sounded like a lie or not. “I don’t think, for this we probably don’t need stitches. Just a lot of gauze, but we have some of that stored up. Usually we have this stock, and if boys aren’t in financial peril, they pay five cents or so to keep the gauze store big enough for the next guy.”   
  
“How often does this happen?” Morris asked.   
  
“Not often. But we try not to use stitches, so when anything happens, we let it scar this way,” Specs said. “Usually lacerations we sew up, but something like this, it’s not too deep so if you don’t mind…”   
  
Morris blinked, slowly realizing that Specs was asking permission. “… Uh, yeah. No stitches sounds good to me.”   
  
Specs nodded, and motioned for the vest to be reapplied to the wound as they waited.   
  
Half a minute later, there was motion through the lodge’s windows and the door swung open. Jack waved them inside. “C’mon, we’ll fix you up. Stay quiet though, ‘ndustrial school’s in session up there for workin’ kids.”   
  
Morris pulled Oscar’s arm over his shoulder again and helped him walk inside.   
  
Jack lead them left to a set of stairs shooting up sharply to the next stories, but down as well. The newsie leader headed down the first few steps towards the upper floors.   
  
Morris paused a few steps away from the stairs and eyed them uneasily.   
  
“You finally gonna accept some help?” Jack asked, sounding fairly smug.   
  
“ _ No _ ,” Oscar grunted. “Mo, let’s go.”   
  
Morris hardened his face and nodded, pulling his brother to the stairs, where he grabbed at the handrail and leaned heavily on Morris as they went. However confident Oscar seemed, Morris forced them to a slow pace by planting his feet between each step on the way up. By the time they got up to the third floor, Oscar was only softly panting, and hadn’t made a noise of pain yet.   
  
Specs waved them to the first doorway on the right, which opened to a washroom of some sort, with water pumps and faucets and various tubs. “You can lay him down on the ground where it’s dry. Jack, could you run up and get my medkit and a pillow?”   
  
“Right,” Jack said.   
  
Morris helped Oscar get down, and then sat against a wall and watched like a hawk as his wound was tended to.


	5. The Delanceys Spend a Night With the Newsies

At some point in the morning, Jack sent Specs off, saying it was near lunchtime and he should sell his evening papes and make some money today. Specs didn’t seem to have any argument, so he left.  
  
They’d put Oscar in some newsie’s bunk on the fourth floor, and the boy fell asleep pretty quick, leaving Morris to sit at Oscar’s feet and Jack sitting in a bunk across from them. It was pretty clear that they weren’t supposed to be in the lodging house during the day, but Jack had made no comment on it.  
  
“So you’s kicked out?”  
  
“And fired,” Morris nodded, mumbling. He was staring at Oscar and had been for a while.  
  
“What’re you gonna do?” Jack asked.  
  
“There’s…” Morris trailed off and closed his eyes, trying to envision where the building was. “That building on eleventh ave? The one by the bakery, the one that’s abandoned. We were gonna stay there and ask around for a job.”  
  
“So you knew you were gonna get fired?”  
  
“Everyone kicks us out sooner or later,” Morris shrugged.  
  
A silence followed for a few minutes. And then, “we’ll settle the hash about you spendin’ the night here. I registered you with the Supt.”  
  
“We’re not newsies,” Morris said plainly.  
  
“You two were. Once.”  
  
Morris swallowed. He flicked his gaze over to Jack, then pulled his knees to his chest. “That was a long time ago.”  
  
“Once a newsie, always a newsie.”  
  
He tossed his head back against the metal of the bunk. “That’s some bullshit right there.”  
  
Jack chuckled, but it fell flat. It sounded like he was trying too hard to lighten the mood, like he was trying to brush it off. It was times like these that Morris remembered back to when he was a newsie, when he went by Mike, that newsie politics were a complicated and unforgiving game that held the lives of plenty of kids in the balance. And Jack was a major player in those games with all of the responsibility of a few hundred boys on his shoulders, despite being just a few months older than Morris.  
  
“Nobody wants us here.”  
  
“Things change— people change, I Swow,” Jack said with that voice he used for convincing people of things. Or maybe it was a voice of genuine compassion, Morris didn’t know what he believed any more. “Hey, you got any funds to work with?”  
  
“Some money we stashed a week ago, yeah,” Morris nodded. “Back at Weisel’s place.”  
  
“It’s six cents for a bed, six cents for dinner. Why don’t you go get that and pay?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Jack paused. “I’m not gonna hurt him.”  
  
“If he wakes up and forgets where he is even for a second, he’ll try to deck you.”  
  
Jack chuckled, this time genuine. “I’ve beat him a hundred times, I think I can handle him.”  
  
Morris paused. “How long ‘fore newsies come back?”  
  
For a second, Jack thought, and then he reached under a bunk, and pulled out a small leather pouch and took from it a watch, checking the time before starting to put it back away. “Three hours, at least. We all get back at six and wash up. Oscar’ll be fine, we cleaned him up already.”  
  
“… Okay.” Morris stood, and watched his brother carefully. It would be the first time he left for somewhere without him for a long while, maybe the first time in months. But he nodded at Jack and walked off down the hall, then down the stairs, and then down the streets of New York.

* * *

  
Hours later, he was back in Oscar’s new bunk, a pile of their clothing tucked under the bed and the tiny burlap bag of their money (and other plunder) nestled in Morris’s (new) vest pocket. A couple of small loaves of bread sat wrapped in a paper parcel by Oscar’s side. He was sitting at the foot again, his legs sprawled over Oscar’s, and Oscar’s hat in his hands. He watched the windows be wiped clean one at a time until they moved on to lower floors.

  
Oscar had awoken once, and they’d sent Jack to the other side of the room so Morris could relay the situation over while Morris gave him bread to eat for lunch. It turned out Oscar couldn’t remember the day very well, so Morris had to explain the fight, and Weisel’s disowning of them, and their trek to the Newsboy Lodging House. Slowly, Oscar nodded in vague approval of Morris’s decision to accept the newsies’ help. Not long after, he said he was tired and when Morris told him to sleep, he did. Jack came back and told Morris to go bathe in the washroom before the other newsies got back. He did.  
  
Some of the younger boys and the skilled ones came back quickly around five, but Jack was sure to assert his authority as the leader and insist that the brothers be left alone until everyone could talk about it.  
  
Morris watched nervously as the bunks around him were slowly occupied by the inflow of newsies, but under Jack’s watch, none of them spoke too loud and none of them approached.  
  
The sun began to set outside, and a few mid-aged newsies began chattering with groups, taking their money, and darting out the door.  
  
“Some of the guys go and buy food for the rest. It’s a good way to make sure we all trust each other,” Jack said.  
  
“How d’you figure?” Morris asked.  
  
“Well if you give your bit to a pal, you expect to get the food you asked for or your bit back, and it’s almost always food. No newsie kid ever complains when they get to keep the change, and no newsie kid ever complains when they get the food they want. And if it wasn’t enough to pay for food, or they’re out at whatever store, then ya miss a meal and start savin’ money and that’s nothin’ we ain’t dealt with before.”  
  
“I hear that,” Morris said.  
  
Jack blinked. “ _You_ ? Weisel didn’t feed you?”  
  
Morris stared silently at his brother’s hat.  
  
“Okay,” Jack said. “I won’t snoop.”

* * *

  
When the sun had finally begun to set, Jack stood up and did a headcount, finding everybody accounted for.  
  
“Alright,” Jack said, turning in a circle to catch everyone’s attention. “Time for a meeting of the Lower Manhattan Newsies. Everybody down to the audience room, let’s go, mosey down.”  
  
As bunk beds creaked around them, Morris leaned forward and shook Oscar by the shoulder. Oscar woke up with a sharp inhale, looked around surprised for a second, and then caught Morris’s eye. He sat up and watched the newsies go. They watched the brothers too, out of the corners of their eyes.  
  
When all of them were gone, Morris took a breath. “How bad does it feel? Y'look peaked, all busted up.”  
  
“Not bad,” Oscar said. They hadn’t talked about Oscar’s state other than how tired he was. It was an old habit not to give away how bad you were hurting, one that could save your skin. “Think we’ll be stayin’ here?”  
  
“Uh…” Morris quirked his eyebrows and allowed himself an amused smirk. “No, we’re not newsies, idiot. We can’t stay in the Newsboy Lodge if we ain’t newsies.”  
  
“No, _tonight_ ,” Oscar mumbled.  
  
Morris blinked, turning to look out the window to the dark city out there. “Oh. Dunno.”  
  
The faint noise of Oscar swallowing came from his side. “We shouldn’t stay.”  
  
“No,” Morris said.  
  
“There’s nothin’ we could do to ev’r make up for what we’ve done to them.”

Morris breathed in deeper. “No.”  
  
“Do you think we will though?”  
  
“No.”  
  
A silence settled over the room like cotton.  
  
Morris shifted on the bed. “What I means is, we won’t ever get around to it. We’re leaving soon anyway. We have to find some way to work, or we kill ourselves maybe.”  
  
Oscar grunted a negative note to that.  
  
“Me neither, but what else than starve I guess.”  
  
“Walk out of the city,” Oscar said. “Go to the farms. Be farmhand.”  
  
“Oh, acknowl'dge the corn, Oscar, that ain't practical. Us, farmers? Yeah, cause _that_ worked out _so well_ for us.”  
  
The silence in the room was sharp.  
  
Morris drew his shoulders up. “Sorry. Didn’t mean that.”  
  
“Whatever.”  
  
“Os—“  
  
“Go listen in on whatever it is they’re saying about us,” Oscar said.  
  
Morris stood obediently, but he paused. “I didn’t mean…”  
  
Oscar shot him a blank stare. Not annoyed, not resentful, not peaceful, but a touch wistful.  
  
He turned and walked to the stairs. He slowly walked himself down, sticking to the railing so he could lean his weight on it to make less noise. When he got to the bottom of the third floor, he stopped in front of the space where the stairs opened to the big audience-room. Newsies were sitting on the benches, and on the floor and against walls as Jack stood in the center.  
  
“…sies for a while. Now, the only thing that ever separated us from them was they were related to Weasel, so they had a hum to go back to and food to eat.”  
  
“Jack!” a newsie called, hand raised in the air.  
  
Jack spun and pointed at the kid. “Yea, Jojo?”  
  
“Did they get extra papes? Bein’ related to Weisel and all.”  
  
“No how,” Jack shook his head. “Between you and me, I’m not so sure they got to keep any of the money they made sellin’ papes. Specs and I always the-o-rized Weasel prolly stole it from them.”  
  
Morris felt his lips twitch up. They didn’t know the half of it.  
  
“So no, they weren’t all that better off than us, they's mudsills too. Never spoke like a book. Same gaunt faces when food prices went up, same fear of The Refuge. Same sellin’ spots— hey, like you might remember, they taught a bunch’a kids how to sell. Never too busy to sell with someone, y’know? Prolly cause they didn’t care the grist of money they made, right? It was just goin’ into Weasel’s pocket. So they sold with me, and Race, and Specs. Seabutch, when he was still around. Skinny before he got adopted.”  
  
Some murmurings raised in the room, and then another kid called out. “Hey Jack, so what happened?”  
  
“Well, Smoke, they turned into teenagers like the rest of us, and they grew likely, got more grit. But instead of what happens to newsies when we get big, they got a whole ‘nother deal. No, they didn’t have to worry about looking too old and losing customer sympathy, because Weasel pulled ‘em right from the line right off the reel one day and put 'em in the positions of employees.”  
  
“So they got mean?”  
  
Jack’s face fell. “Yeah. Yeah that’s right. They weren’t chummy no more cause it was their job not to. They got pulled to be paper haulers inside _The World_ , I guess, cause for five years, we didn’t see them, and when they got back they seemed tough as nails, like we never knew each other.”  
  
There was a beat of silence.  
  
“Now. The vote’s already done, and I don’t wanna push no-one to forgive them if they don’t want to. What they’ve done- it’s rotten. They’re some real hard heads, and they’ve messed up. I know that all to pieces. But I wan’cha to knows that they are kids. They look like old loons but they’re…”  
  
Morris furrowed his brows.  
  
“I’m late seventeen, so Morris should be seventeen by now too, and Oscar is nineteen. They’re kids. And no kid deserves to be treated like that, dragged into working where they don’t wanna. Or kicked out.”

* * *

  
Ten minutes later, when Morris had retreated to Oscar’s side like he’d never gotten up, the newsies filed back into their bunks, but only a couple fell asleep. A handful got out dominoes and leaned across beds to play games or chat at a low whisper. The majority, however, was still looking at the brothers.  
  
Jack sat across from them. “We voted and decided that you can stay for a week or so if you need to. So long as you don't wake snakes all over. I can ask our reporter pal, Denton, see if _The New York Sun_ has any good jobs open.”  
  
“Thanks,” Oscar said in a low raspy voice.  
  
Morris glanced around and saw little boys staring with wide eyes, seemingly unaware that the brothers could express gratitude. But Kelly just nodded. “Yeah. I’m real grateful you helped us out today. Davey or I could'a been cold as a tire wheel on tomorrow’s news if you hadn’t stepped in.”  
  
“That kid’s good at following directions I guess,” Morris mumbled, and instantly regretted it when attention turned to him.  
  
“What kid?” Jack asked, brows furrowing. But he didn’t look angry or (very) suspicious, just confused.  
  
“Dave’s brother, the kid, the Jacobs kid,” Morris frowned. “ _Les_. Les, David’s brother.”  
  
“What’d Les do to follow directions?”  
  
“Told him to go hide under the pape wagon,” Morris said. “I didn’t see him again while we fit so I figured he was there the whole time.”  
  
Jack blinked. “I guess there’s more to thank you for than the knives.”  
  
“There’s a _lot_ to make up for,” Morris shrugged. It felt like an admission of guilt, but Oscar didn’t elbow him, or react much at all, so it must have been alright.  
  
“… hey,” a voice called. A kid on the top bunk diagonal from them. “Delanceys.”  
  
Morris looked up. “Yea, Higgins?”  
  
Racetrack blinked in surprise, but recovered. “You’re sorry for fightin’ us all the time, right? You’re sorry.”  
  
Suddenly, the bedsheets were interesting to look at, but Morris caught himself and glanced at Oscar to see if he would respond. But Oscar’s mouth was a thin line of conflicting emotions. “Yeah, s’pose we are,” Morris shrugged.  
  
“I'll allow, I voted for you,” Race said. “To let you stay and all.”  
  
“Gee thanks,” Oscar rasped.  
  
“Do you need some water or somethin’?” Race asked, face scrunching up in confusion and worry.  
  
“No,” Oscar said, shaking his head slightly.  
  
“ _Yes_ ,” Morris corrected, standing up and pulling a stolen flask from their bag of belongings. He walked down the stairs, eyes trained down on the steps as he went. He didn’t quite remember where to go for water, but there were faucets with warm and cold water, if Morris remembered right. He was about to round the corner to the stairs of the basement when—  
  
“Hey,” a voice called out.  
  
Morris turned to the receptionist, that elderly man who was always around.  
  
“What’re you doin’ in th’ newsie home?” the guy demanded, leaning over the counter to look at Morris.  
  
“Jack signed me in,” Morris said plainly. “Morris.”

“Morris?”

“Oh, or Mike. They used to call me that.”

He looked down at his book, and squinted. “So you are. As long as yer not j’st a runaway wit’ no reason. Are you going to be goin’ for dinner at seven?”  
  
“Maybe. Can I go fill this with water?” Morris asked, raising his hand holding the flask.  
  
“Sure can. Third floor. The name’s Kloppman.”  
  
Morris stepped up and ponied up, dropping eighteen cents from his pocket onto the table. Then, he went without another word, but this time he paused by the second floor to see large shabby dining tables. He must have missed the dining hall coming in, but he noted that on the wall there was a room with closed doors, but the sounds of movement and cooking resounding from it. He went up to the third floor, filled the flask with water, and scaled the stairs once again.

* * *

  
He did end up going to dinner, as did Oscar at Morris’s insistence. _(Morris had frowned and flat-out refused to go if Oscar didn’t, so the older brother relented.)_ It was crowded and loud and they’d been called with a bell which felt like they were farm animals being called upon.  
  
Chipped plates before them were occupied by pork fixins, crumbly and tiny biscuts, and some pea doins. The food was delivered to the dining table by servants, but not every newsie in the lodging house was there. Plenty had gotten cheaper food from the streets, but a good number were socializing over dinner. The brothers kept their heads down.  
  
Pretty soon after most kids had finished their meals, the servants stood, and the bell was rung again. A stampede of boys stood and headed for the doors. Jack Kelly turned to the brother as boys rushed past. “Go up to the bunks. Specs! Stay wit’ em!”  
  
Within a minute they all disappeared, including Jack. Only Specs stood in the dining hall with them. “School,” Specs said. “Let’s head up to your bunk.”  
  
“You got a school to go to at seven in the night?” Morris asked, brows furrowing.  
  
“Sure do, seven-thirty every night. I’m supposed to be there but…”  
  
Morris let it be unsaid that he and his brother were being guarded more than kept company.  
  
“I know most everything they teach already,” Specs said eventually, winking.  
  
Once they got back up and settled, Morris leaned himself against the rails of the bed beside Oscar. Oscar was asleep before a minute passed, tuckered out from everything. The beds were seven by nine, and really weren’t intended for two older teens, but they fit enough that it wasn’t a problem.  
  
“You can sleep now,” Specs said softly. “I’m just going to be reading a book from the library.”  
  
“You got a _library_ ?” Morris mumbled. "You're some pumpkin."  
  
“We got plenty of things. Now, breakfast is six cents or the nuns’ll give you some bread,” Specs said. “We’ll wake up Oscar later, cause there’s a nurse here and I want her to look at his neck and that cut, but you can sleep.”  
  
Morris didn’t end up saying another thing to any newsie all night, because he fell asleep with his hat over his face and only woke in the morning.


	6. The Delanceys Get a Job

The next day saw them walking out to an office in midtown.  
  
No newsie accompanied them. Most had to work, and beyond that, none wanted to go past the boundaries of their mini-borough. Oscar and Morris didn’t mind at all. They weren’t newsies any more, they were fine to walk to whatever place in New York they wanted.   
  
They found their way to the right address they’d been handed scrawled out on a torn newspaper from Jack Kelly. They knocked, and an adult man opened the door. “Hello. What brings you to my office?”   
  
“Mister Denton?” Morris asked.   
  
“What can I do for you?” the man asked, looking confused. “Do you have a story…? I don’t have it on my schedule that anyone’s—“   
  
“Uh, no sir, Jack Kelly sent us here. The newsboy?”   
  
Denton brightened at that. “In that case, come on in. Sit down.”   
  
The brothers walked in, and sat on the leather seats of the small office. It was almost bigger than any office either of them had ever been in though, excluding Pulitzer’s. They watched Denton sit behind his desk and pull a notebook out.   
  
“So what brings you to my office?”   
  
“We’re lookin’ for work to do,” Oscar said.   
  
“We don’t have any writing skill, but Jack told us to ask if there were any suitable job positions here at _The Sun_ ,” Morris said, nodding.   
  
“Our last job was a few years’ work experience of guarding the circulation gates of _The World_ ,” Oscar chimed.   
  
There was a beat of silence before Denton nodded. “I see. Jack believes I could be a helpful reference in investigating a possible job for you, then?”   
  
“I s’pose so,” Oscar shrugged. “If there’s work here, we can work.”   
  
“I’m afraid there’s no way that I could directly hire you. It would have to go through the head of another department. I could certainly recommend you, but the work would likely be sweatshop work in the early mornings for printing press management,” Denton said. “It would also take time, which I’m not certain you have a surplus of.”   
  
“No,” Morris said.   
  
“Then I’m not sure any of my services can be of much help.”   


* * *

  
At the turn of the afternoon, they met Jack at Union Square and 14th.   
  
Jack lead the way, blabbering about the headline of the day while Morris and Oscar fell into step just behind him.   
  
“‘S like, you need a catchy headline and you gots the meat of it, so why can’t they just screw their brains on and give it the nice shiny package it deserves?” Jack said, pouting. He caught the eye of a passerby and grinned. “Murder trial reaches unbelievable conclusion, mister, care for a pape? Hey, thanks. Stay informed.”

  
“How far’s Irving Hall?” Morris asked.   
  
“Relax, it’s Thursday. Show’s not even in prep time yet,” Jack shrugged. “Any case it’s right there.”   
  
The trio walked through an alley entrance into the theatre. Nobody made any move whatsoever to stop the familiar faces. For the first time in a while, Morris felt a sense of being at home. Here, they were regular workers. They weren’t often considered the enemy here, just background faces that helped.   
  
Jack drew some attention, though. The stage manager pointed him in the direction of Stage Right, and they followed down the halls until they came to the wings of the stage. “Miss Medda?”   
  
“Yes, what is it?” the woman called, distracted with her investigation of a bright pink boa.   
  
“Thought I’d get a better reception than that,” Jack pouted.   
  
Finally, Medda seemed to recognize the voice. “Jack Kelly, get over here and give me my hug. C’mon, when are you gonna start giving them to me without my having to ask?”   
  
Jack trotted over and hugged her around the waist with enthusiasm and a beaming smile. “Some day soon, Medda. Hey, I got a favor to ask.”   
  
“There’s no favor you could ask that would be too big,” Medda said. The lady hadn’t even noticed the brothers yet.   
  
“I got a couple’a fellas I known a long time, Ike and Mike, and they’s too old to get by on bein’ newsies. But they’re real strong fellas, so I was wonderin’ if you have any job positions open,” Jack said, stepping back and waving at the brothers.   
  
Medda’s eyes widened at them. “ _You_ boys! I was beginning to worry somethin’ happened to you, you haven’t been around in a few days.”   
  
Jack’s grin flickered and faded. “You know them?”   
  
“They’re part-time workers of mine, Jack,” Miss Medda smiled.   
  
Morris felt his heart beating hard, somewhat embarrassed and delighted. He glanced at Oscar, who looked equally surprised. Neither of them thought that anyone but the Stage Manager had known their faces.   
  
“If you boys need a full time job, I’m sure I can work something out,” Medda said. She draped an arm over Jack’s shoulders. “I don’t recall you two ever _formally_ introducing yourselves to me, boys.”   
  
Oscar drew his hat off with his left hand and offered his right up. He shook Medda’s hand and said, “Oscar Delancey, ma’am.”   
  
Morris followed the motion. “Morris Delancey. We’ve got good arms, but I’m sure I could pick up some technical work if there’s someone to teach it.”   
  
“It’s a pleasure,” Medda said. “Now, Oscar, do you think you’d be any good at running lights?”   
  
Oscar blinked hard, stalling. Morris watched him nervously place his hat back on his head and nod. “Sure. I don’t got smarts to handle everything, though.”   
  
“That’s no problem, we can have you running assistance. Morris, I’m thinking of placing you as the apprentice of the Stage Manager. Our current one gave me a tip that he’s moving out of New York, so we’ll need someone to fill in for the spot in about three month’s time. Think you’re up to it?”   
  
“Sounds perfect, Miss Larkin,” Morris nodded.   
  
“Thank you _so_ much, Medda,” Jack said. He was grinning with that look like Medda had hung the stars and moon, which she surely had in some production in her history.   
  
“It’s no problem,” the woman said. “You know if you’ll let me, I’ll hire all your newsboy pals to help run this place when they get too old to sell the papers. Including you.”   
  
Jack’s face flushed red and he ducked his head. “You’re too kind, Medda.”   
  
“Don’t let any of those boys think there’s no place to go or no job to work, you hear me?” Medda grinned.   
  
Morris looked at Oscar. It sounded fake. Like something you would hear in some story, or maybe a quote out of some fantasy world Medda created on her stage. There were hundreds of newsboys in Lower East Side alone, surely Medda couldn’t employ them all. It was amazing she would hire the brothers with such little confrontation, let alone no application process, but there was _no way_ it would hold up over time.   


* * *

Six months later, they were regular thespian workers.  
  
In the four months that Morris had a tutor in Stage Management, he’d overseen a total of around five productions, some overlapping. Medda almost always self-directed, which made management a lot easier. A lot of the difficulty in the job was making sure that the technical people talked with the artistic people before they got anything wrong. However, the vast majority was pestering everybody from different departments to stay on top of things, and jumping in to do it yourself when they needed.   
  
For two months, he’d been running it solo with no failed shows yet.   
  
Oscar had been helping with the lighting side of the shows, often apparently flipping the switches for house lighting and leaving the spotlight and other special effect to the veteran tech.   
  
Now, they had their own small apartment in a building down on 14th Street. There had, however, been about a week where they’d awkwardly stayed in the lodging house with the newsies they’d terrified for years. Then, Medda had heard enough out of them and insisted she give them a loan to get an apartment as soon as possible.   
  
The currently relevant show was a one-night-only production of The Fortune Teller, a love story about some Hungarian heiress looking for a way out of an arranged marriage. The whole show was being funded by one small club of old ladies who feared they might pass away before they saw the show officially be revived. In any case, the theatre was nearing the end of rehearsals, and it didn’t look like things could go wrong.   


* * *

  
Something pretty important went wrong.   
  
Morris opened the back door ( _which was locked for good reason, mind you_ ) to find Jack Kelly about to bang on it loud again, and what seemed like every Lower East Side newsie he spoke for pooled in the alley behind him.   
  
Before Morris could even talk, Jack waved with a grin. “Well hello, mister.”   
  
“It’s the last day of dress rehearsal, what could you possibly need? We don’t need stagehands to build anything,” Morris said, frowning deep.   
  
“Well it’s Sunday,” Jack said, scratching his neck. “Sundays, there’s no evening edition to sell, and there’s nothin’ Romeo wanted to do more than to see a show, and since youse got a whole lotta empty seats in rehearsal times and no pressure, I figured what’s the harm?”   
  
“It’s a three-act operetta,” Morris deadpanned. “Your boys are gonna sit through three acts of opera?”   
  
“Well if you ever let us in, we might get a chance to try,” Jack snickered, but the cunning face fell a bit to become a sweeter looking one. Surely one intended to gain sympathy from customers. “It’s Romeo’s birthday soon, he just wants to see a show. I’ll keep the boys from stampedin’ around, promise. No trouble at all.”   
  
Morris glanced over the crowd. About fifty boys.   
  
On one hand, the boys would be rowdy and loud, and probably break something along the way if they weren’t personally escorted to the audience seats. On the other hand, they would fix what they broke, there were certainly enough seats in the house, the real audience wouldn’t be much louder, and Miss Medda might kill him if he turned Jack’s newsies away.   
  
He sighed and nodded. “Take them through the stairwell on the left to the audience, rehearsal starts in forty minutes.”   
  
Morris stepped back as cheerfully excited boys rushed past him, following Jack to rush into the building. Once the last of them came in, he closed the door and locked it before moving back to the stage.   
  
“Attention!” Morris called, raising a hand.   
  
The actors stretching and doing tongue-twisters paused, glancing over, and Morris shot a glance at the technical booth, where he saw a light flicker twice.   
  
“We have some early audience members sittin’ in for this show. No reporters, don’t freak,” he said.   
  
“Morris,” an actress said. “The heel broke.”   
  
“The heel broke?” Morris hissed.   
  
In the side of the house, one of the doors opened and newsies started flowing into the theatre. Morris walked towards the actress. She played both Irma and Musette, a ballet student and the fortune teller; it was _quite important_ that _her_ footwear not break mid-performance.   
  
“How bad of a break, has anyone looked at it?” Morris asked.   
  
The woman held up a pair of high-heels, one in frayed-but-otherwise-perfect condition, but the other with the the top lift chipped horribly and the insole lining barely attached.   
  
Morris grunted, conceding that the pair wasn’t repairable for the show’s run. “Do you have any other pair that would work?”   
  
“Not any heels,” she said.   
  
“Have you looked at any of Medda’s shoes?” Morris asked.   
  
Her eyes widened. “Do I look like I want to get fired?”   
  
“You won’t if I’ve told ya to. Have you or not?”   
  
The actress pouted guiltily. “Yes, but we’re not the same shoe size. I’m three-and-a-half.”   
  
“Attention on set!” Morris called, projecting his voice. “Anyone share Samantha’s shoe size? Ladies?”   
  
Nobody made a noise. Morris set his jaw. Someone in the crew or cast must share her shoe size. They had a whole chorus of women, surely at least one of them…   
  
“Size three and-a-half. If you don’t, she’s goin’ on barefoot,” he continued, sweeping a cold glare across the stage.   
  
One of the male leads -the one playing Sandor- raised his hand slowly. “I have a pair of salsa shoes at my apartment. My wife and I—”   
  
“Those have heels?” Morris asked.   
  
He nodded.   
  
“How far’s the apartment?” Morris asked, crossing the stage to him.   
  
“Four blocks.”   
  
Morris grit his teeth, that wasn’t as close as he’d hoped. “You have a key on you?”   
  
The man tensed a bit, surprised. “You’re going?”   
  
“No, I’ll send my brother if that’s alright.”   
  
He nodded.   
  
“Oscar!” Morris yelled, cupping his hands to make himself louder. He could see Oscar stand in the booth. “Come down here, I need you to run and get something!”   
  
Oscar shuffled out of the box, and Morris turned to evaluate the production.   
  
“Samantha, I want you to go to the first aid kid, wrap gauze around the balls of your feet and tough it out ‘til Oscar gets you new shoes. Sebastian, tell Oscar your address when he gets over ‘ere. Crayson, I need you to remember the curtain cues on scene seven this time, ‘kay? These need to match the orchestra. Speaking of— anyone seen where the conductor is?”   
  
“Band’s getting here in five,” a stagehand said.   
  
“But Lee, where is he? Anyone seen ‘im?” Morris asked.   
  
“Break room,” Crayson called.   
  
“Be ready for the show,” Morris said, walking off to stage right to head to the break room.   
  
After chasing down the conductor and sharing a few notes, Morris found himself watching the stage be set from the aisle in the audience, towards house right. Newsies chattered loudly, but the curtains dropped and the final light checks were in place and the orchestra was tuning and nobody was _horribly_ unprepared for the rehearsal, so he counted it as a win.   
  
“Hey Mike,” a voice called.   
  
Morris looked down to Specs, who was sitting on the aisle seat in the fourth or fifth row. He glanced down. E. So fifth. “Yeah, Specs?”   
  
“How’s showbiz treating you?” the boy asked conversationally.   
  
“‘M not on the stage. It’s fine though, pays good. You should see about workin’ here. You’re about to age out of the house, right?”   
  
Specs scrunched his face.   
  
Morris nodded. “What are you, twenty-some?”   
  
“Eighteen, almost nineteen,” Specs said, but he didn’t sound happy. “Jack says I’d be good at being at the box office here, with their sales records and all.”   
  
“You don’t sound too happy ‘bout that.”   
  
“Sellin’ to the upper class ain’t what I’m used to,” Specs said.   
  
“Least you’d have a job where these idiots know where to find you,” Morris retorted, shrugging. “Os and I are up to our knees deep in little runts followin’ us around in the day, they just go on and on askin’ what youse were like when youse were younger.”   
  
“Tell ‘em anything good?”   
  
“Nothin’ much. Just all your darkest secrets.”   
  
Specs snorted, laughing into his palm with a grin. His eyes flicked over to the front row, filled with plenty of the annoying twerps and Romeo. “Can’t believe we’s thought you were cold-hearted.”   
  
The orchestra began playing one pitch, signifying their readiness. Oscar and the senior spotlight manager took their seats up in their box. Morris took a breath and nodded, giving a thumbs up to the tech booth, where Oscar made a similar gesture and cut the house lights. The overture music began playing.   
  
“You‘re not so bad, Morris. Don’t know if anyone’s ever told you that.”   
  
Morris blinked. He looked at Specs, but Specs was smiling at him with none of the strain that came with lies. The newsie boy was being genuine, and sounded honest at that.   
  
He hoped that he could keep making that true.   
  
“Yeah, thanks,” he said, dumbstruck.   
  
A bell begun to ring from the orchestra, and the curtains rose.   
  
“ _What do I hear? ‘Tis striking ten! Those rogues of mine are late again,_ ” the actor for Waldemar onstage sang.   
  
He sat and watched the chorus of girls come onstage, the scene moving forward into a ballet dance sequence. The newsies gasped at every move, and Morris was sure he was going to have newsies doing splits and pirouettes on the lobby floor at each intermission. Fresco dancing with girls, interactions between actors that needed to be watched.   
  
He finally stood to go check backstage, but was stopped by a hand grabbing his wrist.   
  
He followed the hand to Crutchie, sitting beside Jack, who already seemed wrapped deeply into the story. “Hey Morris,” Crutchie smiled, “just wanted to say thanks for lettin’ us in. It means the world to the kids.”   
  
Morris nodded wordlessly, but Crutchie beamed and let him go.   
  
He walked out, rubbing his wrist lightly, wondering how he was forgiven without ever managing to once apologize.   
  
Behind him, the actresses in ballerina costume sang on.   
  
“ _This way, you’re doing better now!_ _  
_ _Careful not to spoil it! That is right!_ _  
_ _Now, la la la la!_   
Now finale! Presto! Con brio!”


End file.
